


Pris Sous La Pluie

by PinstripesAndConverse



Category: City of Love: Paris (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Caught in the Rain, F/M, Ignores the Canon Story Altogether
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 15:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14046954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse
Summary: City of Love: Paris AU.  The MC goes to Paris for an awards ceremony and meets Raphael Laurent and Vincent Karm, both of whom offer her an opportunity to return to Paris at a later date.  Her evening takes a turn for the worst after she leaves the reception.  She certainly never expected their paths to cross again.  MC is unnamed.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have two endings planned; one for Vincent, one for Raphael. Enjoy!

She gazed around the room in awe, her eyes wide as she took everything in.  The room was tinged with a golden glow, the chandeliers sparkling, the glasses of champagne glistening.  She had expected grandness but not the near-opulence of the hall she now stood in.  

Paris seemed to keep impressing her.

Her dress had cost her far more than she ever wanted to spend on a single piece of clothing but the occasion warranted it.  Hell, she had even sought out a French designer in order to make somewhat of an impression on the crowd she would be mingling with.  A collection of the world’s most talented journalists in one room, for one night, to celebrate all of the work they had done.  She, too, would be one of the ones walking across the stage to receive an award and briefly talk about her latest piece.  

She found her table and placed her clutch down near her name card.  Glancing at the other cards, she saw the name of a New York journalist she worked with before; the rest sounded vaguely familiar or were unknown to her entirely.  At least she knew someone at her table.

She wasn’t the first one here but the room was hardly full.  Other women in fine dresses and men in tuxedos were trickling into the room, sometimes in pairs or groups of friends.  She had come alone, not wanting to inconvenience her best friend by the cost of the plane ticket.  And she had no partner to speak of to bring, either.  She’d celebrate when she returned home, she supposed, with friends and family.  

Being alone wasn’t new.  Besides, she was in  _Paris_ , she should make the most of being here, alone or not.

She made a beeline for the bar, taking a place next to a tall ginger-haired man with glasses who was looking down at the bar at his phone.  She ordered a glass of wine and took another glance around, at the expensive glass bottles, the mirrors, and the polished wood beneath her fingers, older than it initially appeared to be.  

A glass of rose wine was placed in front of her and she slipped a bill to the bartender.  Out of the corner of her eye, she say a pair of blue eyes looking at her before flicking away when they caught her watching.  She sniffed the glass, a faint floral scent coming from the pink liquid, and took a sip of her wine, finding fruity notes and a bright acidity.  Not bad, in her opinion.

A clattering on her right and a hiss drew her attention away from her wine tasting.  The man had knocked over his drink but managed to grab his phone in time before the liquid touched it.  The bartender came over with a towel and cleaned up the drink before offering the man a new one.  

She was already looking at him, watching him check his shirt and jacket for stains.

“Well, the important part is that your jacket was spared, you won’t have to worry about smelling like booze all night.” She said, trying to ease the situation.  “And your phone, of course.”

He looked at her, seemingly startled at having someone talk to him after such an embarrassment.  It wasn’t  _that_  bad, he was spared the need to go change or sit under a hand dryer.  Or be stuck without what was probably the most valuable device to anyone in the room.

“You wouldn’t happen to be (f/n) (l/n), would you? The journalist who investigated a recent political campaign in the US?”  The voice was tinged with a French accent but his English was impeccable.  

She was taken aback; not many people knew precisely who she was.  He was waiting for an answer, excitement dancing in his eyes.  He clearly knew her work, knew of her.  She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or concerned.  But then again, this was an awards ceremony, and she was on the list to walk across the stage and receive one.

“I am,” she said, holding out her hand and shaking his, before continuing, almost hesitantly.  “It cost me the chance to be in the press pool in Washington.  I’ve sworn off politics since.”

“A necessary evil of the profession, I’m afraid.” He gave a kind smile, their hands lingering together a second longer than expected.  “Raphael Laurent, I own and run  _City of Love_ , the Parisian lifestyle and culture magazine.”

She raised her eyebrows; she  _read City of Love_  from cover to cover every month, and had seen his picture in the inside cover, but somehow she expected him to be…not like this.

He was handsome though.  And kind.  The awkwardness of their initial exchange had eased but was still present, in an endearing way.  It came with the territory of meeting a person you looked up to, admired.  Part of her felt at home here, talking to him, in a steadily growing crowd of people.

“ _City of Love_  got me through that entire investigation when I needed a break.  Your writers are so…down to earth and refreshing.”

“A very humbling thing to hear, considering your own talents,” he gave a kind smile, one that erased all of the stress from the previous moment.

“Are you one of the presenters tonight?”

“I am, for the…” he trailed off and reached into his jacket for the evening’s itinerary. “Fresh Perspective Award, the one for new journalists and writers.”

“That’s exciting!”

“They did their best to match everyone to something that fits their publications, I believe.”  Raphael’s eyes narrowed as he glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of something or someone.  “What is  _he_  doing here?” He muttered.

She turned back to her wine glass, casually picking it up to taking a sip as she looked in the direction he was.  A slim, tall man, a tad older, although not by much, with dark hair and high cheek bones had stepped into the room, smiling at someone.  He turned away from the person, his green eyes scanning the room and spotting  _her_ , or perhaps Raphael, lingering for a moment before moving on.

She turned back to Raphael.  “I’m sorry, who…?”

“ _Vincent Karm_ ,” Raphael hissed, eyeing his drink but not taking a sip despite an obvious desire so.  “Opportunistic, vile man.”

She kept her face impassive, although her eyes widened for a moment at the shift in tone; clearly they had history.  

_Wait…isn’t…he’s the CEO of Karm International.  Media, advertising…_

“Isn’t his company one of the sponsors for tonight?” She asked, letting her eyes follow him for a moment as he crossed the space to shake someone else’s hand.

He was noticeably alone, much like Raphael.

“Unfortunately.  His company owns a large stake of French and international media, it makes sense for him to be here. I just…don’t like him.” Raphael finally took a sip of his drink, glowering slightly.

“I’m sure you’re not the only one,” she consoled, nursing her wine by the stem, scanning the room.

“Please don’t think me out of line for saying this,” he finished the glass, setting it down lightly on the bar.  “But don’t talk to him.  He’s a blood-sucking opportunist.  Anything he offers comes with strings attached.”

She raised an eyebrow.  She had dealt with politicians and difficult CEOs before; this room was filled with journalists and writers who had done much of the same.  

_Either Mr. Laurent has a deep, personal grudge, or he’s a little paranoid.  They’re competitors but…I wonder how true his words are…_

“Anyway, it was wonderful to meet you,” Raphael held out his hand again and shook hers as he dug through a pocket.  “And congratulations.  I could always use another talented journalist on my team, if you’re ever looking to get out of America.”  He brandished a card, bearing the  _City of Love_  logo and his contact information.

She took it and thanked him, watching him walk away for a moment before she turned, and found a pair of green eyes watching her.

There was something…electric in Vincent’s gaze.  She understood how a man like him would be a CEO.  Perhaps it wasn’t  _her_  he was initially looking at, considering the animosity from Raphael, but now his green eyes were locked firmly on her.  

She wasn’t concerned; it was hardly new for a man in high power to do that, she was conventionally attractive and damn good at her job.  But where others had clearly been wondering about whether she had slept her way to a position, Karm’s gaze was assessing her, wondering why someone like her could be talking to Raphael of all people.  Or perhaps what someone like  _Raphael Laurent_  would be doing with someone like  _her_ , given Raphael’s status.

She held his stare, the way she did when she caught someone’s attention at a club or a cafe, indicating interest.  Raphael gave her advice  _not_ to talk to him, which she thought kind.  Yet he didn’t know her long enough to know she rarely listened to anything but her gut.

And her gut was saying there was  _something_  to the man staring at her.

The connection was broken when someone clapped him in the shoulder hard, jolting him. She watched a frown cross his lips, his expression subtling changing just enough indicate annoyance without being rude.

He was one of the sponsors of the event. For her not to get a word from him would be a shame for her publication.  For her career.  

She had to have something to talk about when she went back home, after all.

* * *

Dinner went quickly, as she expected it to; most of the evening would be taken up by speeches and award presentations.  

Vincent had been one of the main speakers but she couldn’t say she was entirely surprised.  He was one of the main sponsors, or at least his company was; Raphael’s words came back to her, that it made sense for him to be here.  

She had managed to receive her award some time later without a hitch, from a person she vaguely remembered the name of.  She had used them as a source for many of her college projects.  She saw Raphael off-stage; he was presenting the one after her’s, according to the schedule on the program at her seat.  He gave a gentle smile and a wave, a metaphorical nudge of encouragement.

Vincent had taken his seat soon after speaking, watching everything with rapt attention.  

She was unable to hold his gaze longer than a second.  It was as if he was searching for something in every individual walking across the stage, studying them.  She wouldn’t give him the enjoyment of seeing her squirm as he watched her give a quick thanks and offer a small synopsis of her inspiration on the article.

She wasn’t sure what to think of him, to think of what Raphael told her about him.

She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding when she sat back down.  Her table offered congratulations and she thanked them distractedly, afraid to look up and find peridot eyes focused on her still.  

She clapped for everyone else and checked her phone when there was a moment, looking for any excuse to avoid eye contact again.  She dared cast a glance only to find Vincent thoroughly captivated by the stage, enjoying the theatrics of the night.  Raphael was sitting somewhere further back from the stage, behind her own table somewhere.  

The New York journalist she knew made conversation with her for the rest of the night, the two of them the youngest at their table.  She found herself relieved to be able to have someone to talk to and swap whispered stories with, distracted by the other weirdness of the evening.

* * *

The other journalist had darted out to make a phone call with a source, leaving her to wind her way back to the bar.  At least the bar was free for the evening.

She was enjoying a second glass of that rose wine from earlier when she felt a presence next to her, heard a voice order a gin and tonic.  Definitely not Raphael’s voice, just a little too deep…wait…

 _Damn it_.  She thought, daring to cast a glance out of the corner of her eye.  Of course.  Had she really expected to go the entire evening without eventually talking to the person who had been looking at her now and again throughout the night?  

“What does a journalist who’s made her name bringing the truth to her people have to do with a man like Raphael Laurent?”  

He wasn’t looking at her.  It wasn’t until she gazed into the mirror behind the bar that she realized he was watching her reflection.  She met his gaze with as much intensity as his, frowning slightly at whatever he seemed to be implying.

“Are you saying he’s a liar?”

“One of the worst.”  His drink arrived and she sniffed her wine again as he took a sip, finding it to his satisfaction.  “I’m sure he’s already offered his warning of avoiding me and called me all manner of things.  He looked practically rabid earlier.  He gets…attached to the  _idea_ of a person quite easily.”

She remembered how his blue eyes lit up at the realization of who she was, that he followed her work.  

But apparently so did Vincent, beyond the writing that was submitted for her entry.  Both of them knew her from her political work, from the work that had almost ruined her career beyond her current publication.  Work she wasn’t ashamed of but work that polarized her extensively.

“So what, do you wait for him to get attached and then go in for the kill?  Is that was this is?”  She found a playful tone quite easily, hoping to throw him off.  He was probably used to people throwing themselves at him, not defying him, not teasing him.

He chuckled before taking another sip of the clear drink, locking eyes with her in the mirror.  “Hardly.  I would rather not deal with him at all; he acts like I exist for the sole purpose of his misery.”  He almost sneered at the end of his sentence, catching himself and pausing.  She could see the wheels turning in his head as he searched for his next words.  “Let’s just say…you intrigue me, Ms. (l/n).  And I’m not easily impressed.”

“Ah, but would you have found me if not for Mr. Laurent?”  She teased, a smile coming easily to her lips.

He smiled, his eyes narrowing in amusement.  “I know exactly how to find who and what I want.  He just…made it easier.”

She quirked her eyebrows as she took another sip of wine, silently saying, “Fair point.”

“Perhaps you should make your own opinions outside of your work, Ms. (l/n).  You question everything; such a trait should carry over into what you think of others.”  He said softly and she was taken aback to find no venom in his voice, no anger.  

His words were true; one moment she was willingly meeting his gaze and the next she was avoiding him, unsure of how true Raphael’s warning had been.  She wanted to find out for herself but couldn’t bring herself to.  She was used to approaching strangers, she thought this fear had faded by now; she had faced more powerful men and women than Vincent Karm.

And yet…his mere presence caused her heart to flutter.

Rather than continue their stare-off into the mirror, she turned to him, confronting him.

“And how do you suggest I do that, then?  There’s always some truth to what people say.”

He turned his head to meet her gaze directly and held out his hand to her.  “Share a dance with me.”

She cocked her head slightly, trying to assess his angle.  It wouldn’t  _hurt_ to dance with him; she would be capable of at least keeping up with him.  What did he get out of this, though?  Or would he consider it more of an IOU?

Did it even matter?  She was leaving the morning.  She had no attachments back home.  She could afford to dance with one of Paris’ most prominent CEOs.

She took the hand offered to her and let him lead her to the dance floor.  Other award parties she had gone to had a DJ, not a small orchestra; she was expecting people to be dancing to Uptown Funk, not Eugen Doga.

One of her coworkers had played this song at their wedding, she vaguely recalled.  A classical waltz, soft and gentle rather than overbearing, too bright with its high notes.

“So, what are your first impressions of Paris?”  Vincent asked, taking the lead as she mentally counted to three to keep pace.

“It’s….full of surprises.”

“Oh?”

“I expected to eat, receive my award, and return to my hotel where I would spend the night at the bar and work on a story, truthfully.  I arrived too late to actually  _enjoy_ Paris.  But I’m finding tonight enjoyable enough.  The city is really its people.”

 _Flatter him, his city.  Usually works._   She thought.

Being this close to him meant she could smell his cologne, smell the slight hint of  _him_ underneath it.  Woodsy, definitely sandalwood, a hint of vanilla, mixed with a slight duet of floral and musk.  

“Paris is a city of secrets, Ms. (l/n).”

“Who’s hiding secrets?”

“Everyone, my dear.  Everyone keeps secrets.  Everyone lies.”

“Even Raphael Laurent?”

“ _Especially_ Raphael Laurent.”  She caught the corners of his mouth upturning into a small smile; he was in the middle of the room now, hyper-aware of his gestures and expressions.  

They continued dancing and she found herself captivated; she had to look into his eyes to keep from getting dizzy.  

“And what secrets do you keep then, Vincent Karm?”  She asked, realizing too late that the words slipped from her lips.  

He laughed softly, deeper than the one at the bar, an almost wicked laugh.  The music faded as the song came to a close on the single note of a violin.  Vincent raised her hand to his lips, amusement in his eyes.  “Perhaps you should return to Paris one day and find out, Ms. (l/n).”

“Maybe I will.”

Vincent excused himself when, yet again, he was bothered by another man.  Or perhaps it was the same one as before, she wasn’t sure; everything was a blur and her mouth was slightly dry.  She composed herself as she made her way back to her table to take a few sips of water and gather her things.

She’d had enough of games of cat and mouse and being caught between two men who had far too much history together.

* * *

 _Damn. It. All._   She thought, clenching her jaw.

Of course her phone would die.  The black scene stared back at her, reflecting the street lights in dots of yellow and white.  Her charger was back at her hotel.  And she had no idea how to get back to her hotel without her phone’s guidance app.  She didn’t have enough Euros on her for a taxi and her card was in the safe in her hotel room.

_What a disaster.  You’re usually better prepared than this, you idiot!_

She clutched the case her award plaque was in to her chest as she shoved her phone back into her wristlet.  It was useless now.  She knew enough French to get by but naturally nothing around was open at this time of night.

This area…looked familiar, actually.  

_Now, was it a left or a right up here…?  Left, definitely left at the park, I remember this…_

She heard the rain before she felt it, the initial hiss of drops falling all at once before the clattering and pattering began.  

“Oh, come on.”  She growled as she looked around for refuge.  Nothing for a the next block or two.  Fine.

She walked as quick as her heels and skirt would allow her, the fabric capturing the water and holding it.  Her hair, once in an elegant and softly curled style, was soaked and dripped water down her back.  

_The only waterproof part of me is my mascara._

She found an awning and pulled herself close to the window of the shop, the only dry part of the sidewalk.  She shifted her belongings to the small ledge of the window as she wrung out her hair and skirt, trying to get rid of the excess water.  

 _I can just…wait this out_.   _Flash storms usually don’t last_ that  _long._  She thought, trying to be positive.   _What’s a trip without a little adventure and excitement anyway?_

Her breath caught in her chest as she heard her name, just over the noise of the rain on the cloth above her.

“Ms. (l/n)?”


	2. Vincent

“Ms. (l/n)?”  

The second to lastthing she wanted now was someone recognizing her.  She wasn’t entirely sure how that was possible; she probably looked more like a drowned rat in a soaking wet gown shivering under the awning of a closed shop than the woman a few hours ago.

The  _very_ last thing she wanted was to be recognized by the person she danced with, one of the most notable men in that ballroom.  She had seen pictures of him occasionally in magazines, candid shots; paparazzi followed him as much as they did Elon Musk.  This moment  _certainly_  did not need to be caught on camera.

She met his eyes in the darkened window of the shop before hesitantly turning around.  Vincent Karm was peering at her from the backseat of a Mercedes, eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t entirely make out her visage.  The window was down only enough to show most of his face, preventing the car’s interior from getting soaked.

“I’m afraid my explanation would only confirm stereotypes of Americans.”  She said, to which he smirked and gave a barely audible sound of amusement.

He said something in French to his driver before rolling up the window.  An umbrella popped up at the driver’s door as the person got out and walked over to her.  A red haired man with hazel eyes and a kind, if tired, expression waited for her.  

She had no choice, really, unless she wanted to wander Paris looking like she was re-enacting a movie scene.  She didn’t even know  _where_  she was, where her hotel was from here.  

But her instincts screamed at her.  What if he demanded things of her in return for the gesture?  What if she was never seen again?  

“Where are you staying?” The driver asked, his English impeccable but accent heavy.  He was clearly trying to read her mood and settle her nerves.

She gave the name of the hotel and he smiled.  “You turned left at the small park, didn’t you?” She nodded, a little sheepish.  “It’s not that far.”

She followed him to the car under the umbrella and ducked into the car when he opened the door.  She caught sight of a blanket draped over the leather seat, and sat down on it, trying to gather as much of the wet skirts as she could.

The contrast between her soaked dress and Vincent’s impeccable appearance was extremely obvious to her now. It would be comical to her in any other circumstance.  Not even his hair had been touched by the rain, due to what she could only assume was the driver’s attention to his employer when escorting him to the car.  She glimpsed at Vincent to find him reaching for another blanket tucked behind the driver’s seat, his lips quirked in a slight smile.

“Here,” Vincent murmured, unfolding the blanket and reaching to drape it around her shoulders.  

She felt her face flush as she smelled his cologne again, probably worth more than a month’s pay.  

He seemed to hesitate in withdrawing his arm from her after wrapping her in the blanket.  She doubted it was an attempt to be lecherous; rather to be sure she was okay, much like the caution used with a wounded animal.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling the ends of the blanket around her.  It was warm and smelled like leather.  “You didn’t have to-“

He held up a hand and she stopped talking, realizing he wasn’t going to let her finish her gratitude.  “Let it be an example of what we discussed earlier.  I’m not as heartless as some would have you believe.”

She gazed around the cabin as they pulled away from the curb.  She hadn’t even felt the car shift into drive, the inside amazingly quiet.

“Rumors of your heartlessness have been greatly exaggerated?” She quipped.

A smile tugged at his lips as he chuckled.  “Something like that, although most of them are true.  As I said, you intrigue me, Ms. (l/n), and I don’t let those who do stand in the rain and shiver.”

Was she a person to him or a treasure to be kept behind lock and key?  The way he talked about her, about the people who did catch his attention…he made it seem as though he wanted a trove of those with the most potential.  The ones who could offer him the most return on his…investment.

“You make it sound as if your attention isn’t caught very often.”

“Only by the talented, the skilled, and the passionate.”  

“And which one am I?”

Their eyes locked and she found herself facing his assessment again.  This time she couldn’t look away or perhaps she simply didn’t want to.  His green eyes were darker in the dim lighting of the car but they glistened with curiosity perhaps, mixed with…hunger. What  _kind_ , she couldn’t be sure.

“All three…among other things.”

She felt her face grow warm and looked away first, her eyes searching for anything that wasn’t him.  Her gaze traced the lines in the leather trim, in the small details of the Mercedes she had never seen in a regular car.  The wood trim around the back seat was dark brown, contrasting with the black leather seats, the seams creating a diamond pattern beneath her back.  The front seats had TV screens set into the headrests, the surfaces reflecting the streetlights as they passed by.

She had a source gush about Mercedes but this…was beyond a normal S-class sedan.

“Is this…a Maybach?”

Vincent’s eyebrows rose slightly as she looked back at him.  “It is.”

His words hung with a silent, expectant question.

“I have a source who deals in luxury cars,” she explained.  “He’s fan-boyed over this car more times than I can count.”

“Certainly handy when following politicians and their income levels.”

“It wascrucial to figuring out the money laundering.”  She shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She had another comeback but thought better of it.  Sexual humor didn’t go over with everyone and she didn’t want to ruin this.  Whatever this  _was_.  He was well-connected, owned publishing companies that competed with  _City of Love_.  

And he was handsome.  Strikingly so, she never realized how severe his features were.  In the dim lighting and fleeting pass of streetlight, his cheekbones were sharper than before, shadows thrown across his face as if he were a villain in a movie.

 _Was_  he as evil as Raphael said he was?  He didn’t seem to be.  Played into it a little perhaps, but…not quite as cruel as depicted.

Regardless of his visage, he seemed the sort to consider work first and personal things later.  

 _A shame_ , she thought.   _But one way to find out._

The car came to a stop a few minutes later and she looked out the window to see the front of her hotel.

“Could I buy you a drink?  In return for the ride back?”

She was often more forward than was probably appropriate, preferring to keep things simple.  She hated long, drawn-out conversations, especially ones where words were cryptic for often no reason at all.  She thought it was what made her a good journalist; she was not willing to mince words for the sake of someone else’s ego.

“You may.”

* * *

She left him waiting in the lobby as she went up to her room to change.  As she dug through her suitcase, her eyes fell on the recorder charging next to her laptop on the desk.  

He asked her not to bring it.

The integrity she held for her profession knew better than to betray one’s requests.  He didn’t want to be taken advantage of.  

He was trusting her to do as he asked.

She pulled out a pair of pants and a sweater, both black, her outfit for her ride home tomorrow.  No one was likely to see her on her ride home so she highly doubted it mattered if she wore it twice.  

She thumbed the sweater as she considered the rest of the evening, wondering if things would take a different direction.  Maybe she wouldn’t be coming back to her room alone.  

No.

She doubted Vincent Karm would be so foolish as to spend one night in a journalist’s hotel room.  He wasn’t naive.  He might be rich, easily flattered, but he wasn’t a fool.

His request made that obvious.  

She tossed the clothes onto the bed and grabbed fresh undergarments and changed quickly, fixing her hair so it didn’t resemble a tangled mess of knots.  She then  slid on a pair of flats when she was done and shoved the hotel key into her pocket before making her way back downstairs.

* * *

The bar was fairly quiet, a few patrons nibbling on food, one group making most of the hushed noise in the room.  They were seated at the back of Le Bar Kléber, rain pattering softly against the large window to her left; Vincent sat across from her, facing the room, his back towards the corner.  

She felt bare in such a simple outfit, especially next to someone wearing a suit, but she was warmer than before.  Simple meant no pretenses, no facades.  Or so she hoped.

“So, where did you learn to dance so well?” she asked after taking a sip of her vodka tonic.  

She had kicked off her flats and tucked her feet beneath her, her knees pointing towards him.  

“I had private tutoring that included ballroom dancing.  I’ve spent…much of my life at such parties.”  He peered down at his glass; he ordered an Old-Fashioned, the amber whiskey catching the light for a moment.

 _Is he being candid with me?_   She thought, taking another sip of her drink, her eyes falling to the gigantic painting of a peacock on the wall opposite her.  

He asked where she was from in America and she told him, comparing it to the closest largest city she could recall in order to give him a frame of reference.  Eventually the topic of pets came up after she mentioned her cat, a big and fluffy Maine Coon she often snuggled with.  

Vincent smiled, one of the only genuine smiles she received from anyone the entire night, and flicked through his phone as he finished his drink.  He found what he was looking for and slid the device across the small table and she found herself staring at a picture of a pug, asleep, a toy banana resting next to him.

She gushed, enthusiastic but tempered.  

“His name is Esteban.  He’s a curious dog, even if he does nap a lot.  He’s quite spoiled but I love him a great deal.”

“If we don’t spoil our pets, who will?”

His finger swiped to another picture, this time of the pug in a giant pile of leaves.

“Quite true.  They give humans their affection in the purest way, it’s only right to treat them to with as much love as they give us.”

This was…unexpected.  He was telling her, practically a stranger but someone who wrote for a living, about part of his personal life.  Had he seen her words as a challenge?  To prove to her he wasn’t as empty and cruel as he seemed, as the world was led to believe?  

They ordered a second round of drinks that were touched sparingly, diving into conversations of various topics.  Nothing work related.  When was the last time she had ever had a conversation that wasn’t about work or her trip or who she got to meet on her last project?

She pulled up the album of pictures of her cat to return the gesture and nudged her phone across the table to him.  “She’s still young, only a few years old.”

Her peered down at the screen, squinting slightly.  “May I?”  He gestured to the phone and waited for her to nod before picking it up.  

“You can look through them,” she said, her eyes falling back on the white peacock painting in front of her.  

She took a sip of her second vodka tonic.  It was bitter, the taste of the vodka masked by the sour bite of the lime, but she didn’t mind.  She knew her limits and likely wouldn’t even finish this one; no need to get drunk with a stranger in a strange city.

After a minute or two, he handed her back her phone after locking it.  “She certainly enjoys boxes,” he said.  

“She could sleep in the bed she has but she’d rather take a box,”  she laughed, her eyebrows quirking slightly as she took another sip of her drink.

They continued a little longer before she yawned softly, hiding her mouth in her hair and forcing herself to not rub her eyes.  She had no idea what time it was but it was late, probably so late it could be considered early by now.

“I believe that’s my cue,”  Vincent said softly, rising to button his suit jacket.  

“I’ll walk you to the lobby,”  she replied, slipping her flats back on to accompany him out of the bar.  

She gave her room number and asked for the tab to be added to her bill.  She’d settle it in the morning when she left.

They walked around the sculpture in the center of the lobby, the room white marble flooring and white walls with black fixtures and gold accents.  She was surprised her job had gotten her a room here, of all places; Vincent looked almost at home here, barely glancing at anything.  He probably  _lived_  in a place like this.  

It was quiet, which she attributed to the hour.  The counter was empty save a single soul checking something on the computer.

_Surely I imposed on him too long, it’s after midnight…_

“Thank you for the ride.  I’d still be lost otherwise.”

“There’s no such thing as being lost in Paris, my dear.”

Warm fingers ghosted across her palm as she found her hand in his being lifted to his lips.  Adrenaline made up for her state of exhaustion, blood pounding in her ears at the realization of his touch.  She barely felt the kiss on her knuckles, her eyes never leaving his, silence stretching between them for what felt like forever.

_A man with eyes like that is dangerous…yet so alluring._

“Goodnight, Ms. [l/n].  Have a safe flight home.”

He let go over her hand and exited the hotel through the revolving door.  She stood there and waited for him to get into the car; he looked back only once, just before he entered the Maybach and he disappeared into the night.

She turned and began heading for the elevator as she pulled out her phone to text her friend that she was back at her hotel.  She unlocked her phone only to find it wasn’t open to the album of her cat.

It was a new contact page, already saved.

Vincent Karm.  His phone number.  Number _s_ , it seemed, differentiated by cell and office.  

And a note.

A smile crossed her lips as she pressed the button to call the elevator.

 _Should you ever need anything or return to Paris_.   _Perhaps dinner next time._


End file.
